Single Mom

by Omar Tyree

  “It’s not anything with your son, is it? He didn’t get in any trouble, did he?” He sounded really concerned. At the same time, he was expecting the worst like so many others expected.

  I was proud to say, “No, it doesn’t have anything to do with him, I’m talking about the immediate family that I live with. We want to talk about our future together without always putting things off, because she works during the day, and then we work during the night. And you know, it’s in the heat of the moment and all, so I understand if you can’t—”

  “Go ahead and take it,” he said, cutting me off. “You’re right, you haven’t taken any days off yet. And it is short notice, but I’ll let it slide this time. I like the fact that you’re being honest with me instead of making up something. I know when guys are making up stories. I’ve been a manager for a long time, and I’ve heard them all. But during the first few months of the new year, a lot of young families have to rethink things. So this sounds like a legitimate concern. A man with family concerns that are not taken care of will eventually become a stressful worker who can’t perform well on the job.

  “So you go ahead and take off tonight and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I was shocked! I said, “Thanks, Roger. Thanks a lot!”

  “Don’t mention it, just stay on track with your family,” he told me. “The family is the cornerstone of America. You make sure you remember that. A man’s family comes first not just some of the time, but all of the time.”

  “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then. Eleven-thirty sharp.”

  “Don’t be late,” he joked.

  “No sir,” I responded.

  When I hung up the phone, I sat back and relaxed like there was no tomorrow. After working for a straight seven months of night shifts, I had no idea how much a simple night off was needed. But I didn’t plan on overdoing it. I’d be right back at work tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day. I was getting too old to fuck up again. I would be turning thirty-five on March second, and I planned to enjoy it like a grown man with a secure future.

  I called Kim back and told her the good news.

  She whispered, “Baby, we’re gonna have a lonnng night tonight. You hear me? I can’t wait to get home.”

  Jamal was back up and wiping out his eyes. I gave him the phone to cool his mother off.

  He said, “Hi, Mom. They won the game again. And J.D. said I could play in the summer leagues.”

  He listened for a second and gave the phone back to me.

  “He just woke up?” she asked me.

  “You can tell?”

  “Yeah, I can tell. What’s this summer league about?”

  “Basketball.”

  “They start that early? He’s only turning seven.”

  “Yeah,” I told her. I wasn’t even sure, I just figured that they would.

  “Mmm hmm. So if we have a daughter, I guess you’re gonna be basketball crazy with her too, right?”

  “Naw,” I answered with a smile. “She’ll probably run track.”

  Kim chuckled and said, “I have to get back to work. I’ll see you two when I get in tonight.”

  “All right then.”

  I hung up the phone and started thinking about fixing Jamal something to eat. I asked, “How would you like to have a little sister?”

  He smiled and hunched his shoulders. “I don’t know.”

  I said, “Would you rather have a little brother?”

  “Yeah.” He was much more excited about that.

  I asked him why.

  “Because, I can play with him rough and stuff.”

  “Well, who said that girls weren’t rough?”

  He grimaced.

  “You don’t have to play rough all the time anyway. I used to be rough all the time, and sometimes it doesn’t pay to be rough. Sometimes being rough can get you in trouble and send you to terrible places.

  “Do you know what jail is?”

  He nodded his head. “That’s when they lock you up in bars and slide your food through a window.”

  I started laughing but it was no joking matter. I asked, “Do you ever want to go there?”

  He grimaced again and shook his head like crazy. “No!”

  “Good,” I told him. “So stop thinking about being rough all the time. A little sister would be good for you. Do you see me acting rough with your mother?”

  “No.”

  “That’s right. A good man talks to a woman; he doesn’t rough her up. You hear me?”

  He nodded his head again.

  “Good. Now what do you want to eat tonight?”

  “Cereal.”

  I smiled at him and shook my head. “Naw, man, you don’t get any cereal at night, you eat that in the morning. Now your mom has some ravioli in here in the cabinet. You want some of that?”

  “Yeah, ravioli!” he shouted. I used to love ravioli, too, when I was a kid.

  I opened up the can and pulled out a small pot to cook it in. Then I burst out laughing again. I had been through so many changes in life that it was plain comical to me. I could have never imagined living the life that I was leading ten years ago, or even five years ago. I had been living day to day with no real plans or visions for years.

  Jamal asked, “What’s funny?”

  I said, “Little man, life is a long journey. You hear me? So if you ever hear anybody talking that life-is-short stuff, you tell them, ‘No it ain’t! Life is long! Because you never know what’s gonna happen with it.’”

  I said, “I’ve come a long way with my life, Jamal. I just hope that I live long enough to see you go through your journey.”

  Jamal jumped on my legs like he did when I first started seeing his mother again. He yelled, “Yeah, me too! Then you can come to my basketball games in high school.”

  I smiled and shook my head again. I told him, “You know what, I think I’ve just created a basketball monster.”

  Jamal didn’t care though. He just kept smiling and talking about how he couldn’t wait to be on a team. And I couldn’t wait to watch him either. In the meantime, though, I was more focused on raising him, like any good father should be.

  To Be or Not to Be

  O, what did Monica say?” I asked Camellia. She made her daughter have a sit-down discussion with Reuben Gray about what they meant to each other. I was only asking for details because Camellia would not stop talking about it. It had been nearly two months since the teenagers had been intimate, and I don’t believe they had a chance to do anything again. Camellia had Monica on a tight schedule with an after-school job to keep her busy. If Monica and Reuben ever indulged again, and Camellia had found out about it, she planned to take the matter to Reverend Gray himself.

  “She said that Reuben is beginning to back away from her.”

  “I bet he would, as busy as you’ve made her,” I commented. “He probably thinks she’s too young for him now, like she needs an escort or something.”

  “Well, he’s graduating from high school this year,” Camellia argued.

  “And Monica’s graduating next year,” I responded. “Will you at least let her go to the prom with him?”

  “For what, so they can get a hotel room and go at it all night long?”

  “Not if you hire the limousine and have him take them right back home.” I really thought that my friend was being ridiculous, but what did I know, it wasn’t my problem.

  “Girl, I don’t have any money for no limousine. You just wait until Jimmy starts dating,” Camellia warned me.

  “Oh, trust me, I’m already worried. I think he has a girl calling him now. Hold on for a minute.” I clicked over to my other line and it was Brock.

  “You almost ready?” he asked me. It was Friday night and he was taking me out for dinner.

  “Yeah, I’m just finishing up my conversation with Camellia.”

  “Okay, well, I’ll be over there in forty-five minutes. Tell Camellia I said hi.”

  “Okay
. I’ll see you soon.”

  I clicked back over to Camellia.

  “Is it for Jimmy?” she asked a little too eagerly. Right before my eyes, Camellia was turning into a classic case of a parent living her life through her kids.

  I said, “No, it was for me. Brock was calling to check up on me. He says hi. We’re going out tonight. Maybe you should try it. You might like it.”

  “There you go with that again,” she snapped. “So where are you going this time? Have you ever thought of just eating at home?”

  “We do eat at home, but it’s good to go out every once in a while. You should really try it.”

  “So where are you going?” she asked again.

  “He won’t tell me for some reason.”

  “Does he usually surprise you?”

  “Well, he usually tells me where we’re going.”

  “Oh, so this must be something special then,” Camellia said, searching.

  “Maybe,” I answered her.

  “So, anyway, do you think I’m going overboard with Monica?” She was getting right back to her daughter again.

  “Yeah, sometimes I do, but since I’m not in your shoes, it makes it really hard for me to determine,” I responded. “Like you said, I have to wait for Jimmy to start dating. Then we can talk.

  “So how has Levonne been doing?” I asked to change the subject. Monica was getting far too much of our attention. That happened in a lot of families, the kid who goes astray ends up controlling the household.

  “He’s fine. I’m trying to find him a job for the summertime.”

  “So are you going to let him start playing football?” I asked her. I just wanted to round out the conversation before I hung up.

  “Yeah, if he’s any good at it.”

  “Some guys are late bloomers,” I told her. “Look how he gained weight all of a sudden.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess you’re right. Anyway, fill me in on the details when you get back in tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Well, you’re not going to call me back tonight are you?”

  I didn’t even have to think about that. “Hell no,” I told her.

  “Well, that’s why I said tomorrow. And don’t forget, we have a lecture on Monday at Fletcher Elementary.”

  “I know, I know, the Black History Month thing,” I said with a pout. I didn’t see why we were only invited to schools during Black History Month or when something special was going on.

  “At least we have a month,” Camellia responded. “They didn’t have to give us that!”

  “Well, like the saying goes, ‘He who gives can also take away.’ That’s why I say we need to create our own celebrations and holidays.”

  “We did. Carter G. Woodson came up with Negro History Week in the early nineteen hundreds, then it was expanded into Black History Month years later when the rest of the country caught on.”

  “So it went from a progressive idea into commercialism, just like they’re trying to do now with Kwanzaa.”

  “Well, so what?” Camellia argued. “I guess you’d rather have a black holiday that nobody knows about so it can be considered authentic, like a rare painting or something, hunh?”

  I laughed and said, “I guess so.”

  Camellia said, “You just make sure you show up on time on Monday. Nine-thirty sharp. Now do I need to drive you over there?”

  “Look, girl, I’ll be there, okay. I said that I would do it, and that’s what I’m gonna do,” I snapped with a grin.

  I hung up the phone with Camellia and went to check up on my boys in the family room. They were playing video basketball. Since they both had good grades in school, I didn’t mind. But I was still turning off them damn videos. BET needed to find something else to put on. My God!

  “Haven’t you had enough of basketball for one day?” Jimmy had just won his second play-off game earlier that evening. We were all there to see him, including Brock. He had the entire week off from work, and he spent most of his time with us. I was pleasantly surprised to see how well he got along with J.D. That shocked me. But I figured Brock and J.D. would have a lot more in common than Brock and Walter would. If Brock and Walter could hit it off, then I would really be shocked. Not that I actually cared; however, it would just be something interesting to see.

  Walter said, “I can beat him in this,” referring to the video game.

  Jimmy just smiled. “I figured I’d let him beat me in something, Mom,” he commented.

  “Aww, you don’t let me beat you. I beat you fair and square.”

  I said, “Walter, do you have all of your things packed to stay with your father this weekend?” His father was picking him up that Saturday morning.

  “Yeah, I’m packed, but not all the way,” he answered.

  Jimmy looked at me and started laughing.

  “Did you hear what your brother just said?” I asked him with a grin.

  “He don’t make no sense sometimes,” he said.

  “I am packed,” Walter repeated. “I just didn’t put my clothes in my bag yet.”

  I let out a long sigh. “Don’t let anybody in the house. You have my pager number, and you have Grandmom’s number.”

  “And the police is 9-1-1,” Jimmy added sarcastically.

  Then Walter started to laugh.

  I said, “You’re not too big to be burglarized, Jimmy. You hear me? You’re still only fifteen years old until June.”

  “Yeah, but I can hold mine,” he bragged with his arms up. He had been doing push-ups to beef up his upper body. And it was working.

  I said, “Burglars do carry guns. Okay?”

  Walter asked, “When are we getting a gun?”

  Jimmy sucked his teeth. “Why, so you can shoot me with it by accident?” he said. “We probably already have one, but you’d be the last to know about it.”

  “No we don’t have one, either,” I responded. “But he would be the last one to know about it if we did. That would be a disaster waiting to happen.”

  Walter dropped his head. Whatever his father thought he was teaching him didn’t seem to be working, because he still said the silliest things.

  “Have you learned anything this school year?” I asked him. He should have, with all of the drama we had been through.

  He dropped his head even farther. “Yeah,” he answered in a whisper.

  “Well, act like it then,” I told him. “You’re going to be a teenager this year. It’s time to stop acting so naive and silly. Silly boys don’t do well in high school. They get turned into punks, class clowns, and start following the wrong crowds.”

  I hated to be so rough on Walter, but someone had to do it. I was getting fed up with his immaturity, especially with how Jimmy was developing. I guess I wanted both of them to develop at the same rate, which was unfair. I even felt like apologizing to Walter, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. He needed to be toughened up a bit. I couldn’t wait until outdoor track season to get started. I wanted to see if Walter could actually take the practice schedule. I wanted to see him put his money where his mouth was. And I didn’t consider myself a cruel mother, just a mother who was forced to raise two young black boys in inner-city Chicago. Whether we still lived there or not was besides the point. Chicago was my measuring stick of mental toughness, the toughness that young black men would need to survive in America.

  By the time Brock pulled up to the house, I was ready to go. I was so ready that I was waiting for him at the front door. He was nearly a half hour late.

  “What took you so long?” I asked him. He looked damned good, wearing a beige London Fog coat, a pinstriped black suit, and a black silk tie, with a fresh haircut and a shave. I had on a snazzy black dress under my long leather coat myself, and some new curls in my head. I didn’t mean for us to be matching, but what could I say. I guess we were both in a classic mood. Black.

  “There was an accident on the way here. A pickup truck hit a taxi, and smashed the whole back end. Are
the boys all right?” he asked me.

  I was still staring at his outfit. “Ah, yeah, they’re in there playing them video games.”

  “Well, it’s better than hanging out in the street,” he responded. “Let me run in and say hi to them.”

  I followed him back into the house, thinking that Camellia may have been on to something.

  When he walked back out after speaking briefly to the boys, I pressed him. “So, how come I can’t know where we’re going?” I asked again. I was getting extremely curious.

  He let me in the car and asked, “Have you ever been to the Shark Bar?”

  “I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never been there. No.”

  “Well, that’s where we’re going.”

  Maybe he shouldn’t have told me so quickly. I started thinking, Is this place all that fabulous? “Have you eaten there before?” I asked him. I hoped that he wasn’t taking me to one of his old stomping grounds.

  He said, “No, but I did check the place out before making reservations.”

  “What kind of place is it? It sounds like some kind of gangster hangout in a mobster movie. The Shark Bar.”

  Brock broke out laughing. “Naw, it’s a nice place, very low-key, and plenty of black people there.”

  “Is it black-owned?”

  Brock grimaced. “Actually, I’m not sure. You know how some of these places are. You have black faces everywhere, but that doesn’t mean that we’re the majority owners. I hear that that’s the case with everything that has Michael Jordan’s name on it. And he can afford to be the sole owner.”

  I smiled. I guess my Michael Jordan beefs were starting to rub off on him.

  “You know, I heard he recently said he’s gonna start promoting a cheaper brand of shoes,” I commented.

  Brock nodded. “Yeah, he finally realized that these young poor kids were killing themselves to buy his hundred and fifty dollar shoes, as if he didn’t know how much they cost all these years.”

  “Well, he’s had a lot of things on his mind lately. We can’t expect him to be informed on everything. And at least he’s a good family man. You never hear about him getting into any kind of trouble.”